


And Me, I'm Just Tired

by KissTheBoy7



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Study Buddies, adorable boys, as many Amis as I could fit in basically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-09
Updated: 2013-03-09
Packaged: 2017-12-04 19:00:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/713964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KissTheBoy7/pseuds/KissTheBoy7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times one of the Amis didn't sleep and the one time they all did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Me, I'm Just Tired

**Author's Note:**

> For the kink meme prompt: http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/11823.html?thread=3772975#t3772975

It's four minutes past the time that Joly had  _promised_ himself he'd be sleeping by, in order to get the appropriate eight hours for the night. And with every passing second he grows more paranoid.

There's a tickle in the back of his throat. Bossuet says it's nothing, but with Bossuet's luck he and Musichetta and Joly have probably all caught the plague from one another by now and in the next three days they'll be covered in black sores or possibly dead. Their arrangement had never bothered him morally, but he'd always insisted they be safe regardless - there were so many more germs to think about when you shared a bed with two people. He'd meant to ask Courfeyrac how exactly he'd stayed in such good health over the years with all of his whoring around, but the dorm is dark and silent and he really couldn't bear to wake anybody up just to complain.

Shifting awkwardly and trying not to think about the twinge of a fermenting migraine between his eyes, the pre-med student takes deep breaths through his nose. Is it just him, or are his nasal passages feeling swollen? Dear Lord, what if he really is getting sick? _It's flu season._

And to make matters worse, he's opted to spend tonight in the dorm rather than at his lovers' apartment. What had possessed him, he'll never know. (well, okay, he does have one itty bitty exam in the morning but that's not seeming so important as it had a few hours ago when he'd left with a kiss from each of them)

It's sixteen minutes past the time he'd promised himself he'd sleep and he fumbles in the dark for his phone, plugged in and resting on the nightstand, to frantically speed dial his male lover.

"Hnn? Hey... what's wrong?" Bossuet mumbles sleepily from the other end. The frustration that had been creeping up his throat is shoved back down, and he finds himself whispering.

"Any chance I could still come back...?"

\---

Sometimes Enjolras forgets to take care of himself. And by sometimes, he means all the time. And by all the time, he means that it takes all three of his dormmates to hold him down and force the covers over him most nights when he's obsessively studying or planning for a protest that might not even happen in three weeks and  _damn it Enjolras you stubborn prick just go the fuck to sleep!_

That voice ringing in the back of his head may or may not be Courfeyrac's. He may or may not be glaring at the blank spot of paper beneath his pen as though somehow the force of it will divert itself to the Irishman happily snoring in the next room.

He has nine pages of a ten page paper already written and the assignment had been doled out three days ago. That might feel like an accomplishment to anyone else, but Enjolras was convinced that he could make it ten and maybe an extra page if he can just keep his eyes open. That third cup of coffee hasn't kicked in, nor is it settling well in his empty stomach. But  _paper._ And  _politics_. It's three in the goddamn morning and he has class at nine and he doesn't even care, just wants this done so he can revise it sixteen times before handing it in, starting tomorrow. Or today. Is it yesterday, or is it tomorrow? He's not really sure anymore.

Jesus Christ it's really gotten to that point hasn't it?

Exhaling frustratedly through his nose, the blonde leans back in his chair and closes his weary eyes for just a moment, rubbing his temples like he wants to push the bits of his brain that have leaked out back in. Outside of his door he hears the floor creak as somebody pads down the hall, probably to the kitchen.

If Courfeyrac values his life he'll know better than to come investigating the light spilling from under his door.

He steels himself and sits up straight again, reaching for the pen he'd dropped somewhere amid the mess of papers on his desk.  _Just one more page, you can do it._

He does.

He falls asleep ten minutes into his lecture in the morning and drools on the notes he didn't take. Courfeyrac laughs. Enjolras tells him, through gritted teeth, that he knows where he sleeps. He only laughs harder.

It is clear that he doesn't, in fact, value his life.

\---

Combeferre covers his mouth to disguise, halfheartedly, a massive black hole of a yawn that threatens to suck up the entire mess of a room and Enjolras with it. There's a book the size of his head lying open in his lap and he looks like he's about to keel over, but his friend has always been terrible at taking the hint. He's still going on and on and  _on,_ something about gender politics and feminism and the despicable inactivity on campus as of late and eventually he flings himself into the chair at Combeferre's desk and opens his laptop to violently search for a petition that he's insisting he sign because  _every signature counts_ and  _we have a responsibility to our country, Combeferre._

He can feel his eyelids drooping as Enjolras' eyes cease to pierce him, and he barely feels guilty about it. It's far too late for this but sometimes he gets into these moods, and there's nothing to be done about it except to smile and nod and make noncommital, assenting noises every few moments to reassure him that he's getting through. (although at this time of night he's not sure if even Enjolras will believe that he cares about a bare-above-the-waist march to the town hall next weekend.

"I know I have the link somewhere, just hang on- don't fall asleep!" 

Jerking upright, trying to blink and clear his blurring vision, Combeferre pushes his glasses clumsily back up his nose and tries to focus on Enjolras' pout rather than how very badly he wants to tell him to go get laid or something so he can go to bed.

No. He's not that crass. He's patient. He can do this.

\---

In the night, the demons come to him without fail. So he drinks. He drinks and drinks some more and the hands grasping at him from beneath the bed recede, as if put off by the overpowering scent of liquor on his breath. And sometimes, if he's lucky, they disappear altogether, evaporate right out from under him and leave him be for the rest of the night.

But they always return in the mornings. Whenever he's alone they will be back and he won't be safe from their hungry claws. He tips the bottle back and shudders at the thought.

Grantaire has lead a rather sorry life, to be perfectly honest. (and oh is he honest - though it's unlikely he'll remember it in it's entirety later) He's entitled, he thinks, to a shot or two, and the flask he's ever-emptying and refilling in his pocket, and a little brandy in his coffee in the morning. (if he sees the morning at all) So he shows up drunk to a class or two, so what, who cares? He's flunking out anyways. Or he  _was,_ until Enjolras had fixed him with those blue eyes bright with determination and he cursed under his breath because he knew right then that he had become a Cause, capital C, and there was no way he was getting out of this one.

So, maybe he's not quite failing anymore. But he probably will be if he skips his class at noon tomorrow. Which he fully intends to do.

The cynic huddles in the corner of the bathroom and gulps the bottle down until he's sick in the toilet bowl, and even then, he feels the shadows wreath around his wrists and ankles, dragging him back under.

\---

Jehan finds his way into Courfeyrac's room around one in the morning. He can't sleep, or that's what he tells himself, but more likely he just doesn't want to.sleep alone. It's well into the semester and he still gets nervous, still peers anxiously out the window through the leaves of his hanging fern to search for Bahorel whose out at the bar and not here to protect him like he should be. He doesn't like that he's so  _young_ compared to the rest of them, and here he is proving that he's just a defenseless scaredy cat of a freshman, some kind of damsel in distress.

So naturally, Courfeyrac's room is the way to go. He has no trouble sneaking into the other boys' suite, tiptoeing past Enjolras' and Combeferre's doors in turn - Joly's room will be empty, as per usual these days, and if not it will contain only Grantaire who couldn't give less of a damn who is creeping about in the dorm that's not even technically his unless they're trying to cut Enjolras' pretty hair off. Which he's not.

But there's no Grantaire and no Courfeyrac and he burrows into the blankets, clutching his little potted cactus to his chest and feeling at least marginally safer than he had in his own room.

His Courfeyrac isn't likely to call him out for finding him curled up in his bed when he inevitably stumbles back into the room at three or four this morning. (Jehan is eternally jealous of people whose classes don't start until after noon) He's more likely to coo and call him a precious gem, and probably prick himself trying to pry the cactus from his sleepy fingers.

Not that he can sleep, still, especially when he can smell Courfeyrac's cologne and what's probably the faint lingering scent of sweat and things Jehan doesn't want to think about at all, thank you very much.

Instead he pulls a Sharpie from his pocket and a Post-It note and he clicks the little light on the nightstand on so he can see as he scrawls aimless words of love for his friends and for his Courfeyrac especially, tucking each pink slip beneath the pillow for him to find.

\---

The hall leading to the Amis suite is abnormally silent. Carefully balancing a cardboard tray of Starbucks coffee in one hand, a bag full of pastries in the other, ("They'll love you for it," Bossuet had promised as he pressed the money into his hand and then a kiss to his lips, flushing as he squashes their noses together by accident. "You can't be the only one worrying about midterms.") Joly fumbles with his key for far longer than he's proud of before managing to push the door in and stumble after it.

The sight that greets him is ludicrous. Not a soul in the dorm is awake - he recalls Enjolras shouting at him as he'd left the previous night about some overnight study session he'd been planning but Joly had assumed he wouldn't be the only one to beg out of it. From the looks of it, he hadn't been, but there were still more people piled together on the floor surrounded by books and notesheets and highlighters than he would have expected.

Propped up against the couch are Grantaire and Courfeyrac with his head nodded forward onto his shoulder, Jehan curled into his lap like a puppy. Enjolras had fallen asleep with his head in Grantaire's lap, golden hair spilling over the drunkard's thighs - the fact that Grantaire was present at all would have been shocking if Joly hadn't already spotted the empty bottle of vodka and sticky shotglasses that had obviously aided the "studying" - and Combeferre was sprawled on his stomach on the couch above them all, one arm dangling over the side onto Enjolras' chest. All in all, they look incredibly comfortable, and he almost wishes he'd stayed the night if only for the aftermath.

Joly sets his goodies on the kitchen table and pushes the door closed behind him, tripping over to join them.


End file.
